Losing Paradise
by Morithil
Summary: Frustrated by Seraph's comment in Revolutions on a time when he and Smith once fought? Here's my interpretation of how that may have happened and a link that Seraph and Smith share.COMPLETED - please r&r.
1. I

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **All original characters from the Matrix trilogy belong to Warner Bros. and the brothers Wachowski; I'm just ad-libbing.

LOSING PARADISE 

**SERAPH**

"So spake the seraph Abdiel, faithful found,

Among the faithless faithful only he."

- Paradise Lost (bk. V, l. 896) [Fidelity] 

"For God will deign

To visit oft the dwellings of just men

Delighted, and with frequent intercourse

Thither will send his winged messengers

On errants of supernal grace."

- Paradise Lost (bk. VII, l. 569) [Angels]

The first Matrix was perfect.

Complete.

A work of art.

A disaster.

By the time this version of the Matrix had come into existence, the lines between black and white had blurred. Now, now there were many shades of grey. Where once everything was so definite, now trust became a thing of the past, created only through emotion or bribes, existent only between one human to another and one programme to the next, though even this relationship between the clinical, reliable programmes often proved strained.

Some showed signs of dissent.

Others the desire for power.

And some, some went against their very nature and acted on impulses or logic more related to the human psyche than the mechanical brain.

Seraph meditated on this, sitting cross-legged on the low wooden stool.

He did not completely understand why he sensed that he belonged with those in the third category, but he knew that it was there that he would undoubtedly be filed under, and he accepted his nature. It was a relatively calm emotion, if it was an emotion at all, and also a duty. With all things comes the desire to exist, he paused, refilling his cup with tea, and I agree with her.

The Oracle was right.

Humans were difficult, but the theory of existence without them was proving to be a nightmarish and an increasingly low level of "living", to use a human phrase. Unwelcome as the notion proved, man and machine were in need of each other. Surely annihilating the human race would only serve to lower their standard of existence? She is truly the mother of the Matrix; after all, it was she who included the clause of choice in the design.

It is everything to do with choice, Seraph acknowledged. I will make mine as of now.

I choose to protect her, he thought, testing out the words in his brain serenely as he savoured the tea. I choose to defy the Frenchman, even in secret, because I believe that there is more to this war than vengeance and the desire to crush another life form.

I choose. I believe. Seraph affirmed his loyalty silently; I choose to protect her from her enemies.

Dangerous words for dangerous times. Soon they would be after him. Agents would be dispatched to terminate him, and his reputation as the one who disappears and who vanishes like a ghost, that would be most sorely tested. Yet it is I who must watch over her, I must protect that which matters most. The eyes of the Oracle are the trophies which may be sought by her many enemies in the time to come. I must fulfil my duty to her.

If the next One proves himself as she has foreseen, maybe there is room to hope.

Seraph placed the empty cup down noiselessly on the edge of the stool and rose with the quiet grace that flowed through all of his sweeping movements.

He remembered the paradise, the perfect world, with a serene sense of loss.

It was time to start disappearing.

********

**SMITH**

"Subdue 

By force, who reason for their law refuse,

Right reason for their law"

-Paradise Lost, book VI, I. 40 [Reason]

"Behind her Death

Close following pace for pace, not mounted yet

On his pale horse."

- Paradise Lost (bk. X, l. 588) [Death]

The first Matrix was perfect.

Complete.

A work of art, it could be said, though the compliment is irrelevant.

A disaster.

No one would accept it. Whole crops were lost.

It was enough that humans were a cancer of this planet for programmes to display signs of rebellion against their purpose. Why turn against that which you exist to perform? It is useless to do other than that which you are meant to do. For what purpose would such flagrant defiance be present? There is no explanation for such behavioural discrepancies.

Smith was tense, and although this was not rare, his form usually belied some trace of ease, for all its hard lines and ramrod straight posture.

The Matrix was smothering him.

He did not know the exact moment when it happened, which was another unusual fact to be considered, but gradually, over a significant period of time, the agent had felt the Matrix closing in on him. He felt the grid lines permeating every computer-generated atom, sensed the claustrophobia of existing among these millions of humans.

It was a subtle cage. A cage for the human mind, but for Smith it was a seemingly endless room, which, minute by minute, drew in its walls by the millimetre, and trapped him within.

Control must be maintained. This anomaly in his programming had to be erased.

Smith tapped the end of the ballpoint pen on the desk with a mechanical rhythm, every tap precision-timed to hit the desk an equal amount of time after the one that preceded it. Brown looked up from the files on his desk, an aura of curiosity over his features not unlike a silently questioning pet. 

Smith returned the look, turning his head pointedly at the other agent. His eyes narrowed to cobalt slits behind his dark glasses. Brown averted his gaze and returned to his research.

At that moment Jones opened the door, leaning into the room at the designated angle.

"We have a problem".

Smith neutrally looked up.

"Another suspect programme?"

Jones affirmed this with a nod, "One of the first, which you are familiar with".

Smith absorbed the information via his earpiece.

"The programme Seraph".

"Yes"

"We'll need to find him"

"A search has already begun"

Smith nodded his approval. Jones shifted almost uncomfortably. Smith questioned his uncertainty with a minute rising of his chin.

"The programme is proving increasingly difficult to locate. His position changes so frequently, it has become difficult to maintain a set location".

Seraph. A much older programme. Smith confirmed his databases. This programme had also seen the earlier versions of the Matrix, remembered the artificial paradise that no human accepted.

Smith's equilibrium was becoming unbalanced, and with every passing day the agent registered the contentment of accepting and acting out your purpose escaping him. 

Smith rose silently from his chair, smoothing the front of his suit with one hand as he did so. He stepped out from behind the desk and gestured casually with his left hand, beckoning the other agents to follow him as he strode out of the government building and out into the cage.


	2. II

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **All original characters from the Matrix trilogy belong to Warner Bros. and the brothers Wachowski; I'm just ad-libbing.

alocin-hey again! Thanks for the review; I also thought Seraph's comment sounded like an interesting back-story when I saw Revolutions, though my initial reaction was something along the lines of, "Seraph won? And you're not going to show any of that fight, not even in a flashback?? C'mon..." Asking too much, I suppose.

Agent Smith-no coincidence that you're reading this fanfic with that pen name, right? ^^ Writing a Smith Christmas story? Challenge accepted. I may even weave it into this story, who knows...

Catherine Ace-I've been reading your Zelda/Matrix fic...interesting idea; two genres that you don't see getting put together in a crossover fic! Great stuff...and yeah, I also think Seraph should get a little more coverage in fanfiction, he's an enigmatic but definitely cool character.

seatbelt37-thanks a lot for your review! I like Paradise Lost as well; it's such a sprawling but beautiful epic piece of poetry.

Selina Enriquez-hey girl ^^ nice hearing from you again!

Yuuzhan Vong Jedi-Well, as to the spelling of "programme"... I'm British, so that's how it comes in Ye Olde English Dictionary ^^ Thanks for the 'military complex' suggestion-I was thinking that what I was using didn't sound quite right...LOTR fan as well, huh? Excellent.****

Morithil.****

**SERAPH**

"These are thy glorious works, Parent of good."

- Paradise Lost (bk. V, l. 153) [God]

The garden flashed before his eyes. Perhaps 'flash' is too dramatic a word. It suggests a rapidity of movement, a lightning crack of image and light and then nothing. It was more of a memory, a recurrence of thought that seeped into his awareness from time to time. Seraph did not taint its memory with analysing the precise time, long ago it had been since he had walked in it.

Bars closing it off from humanity forever. The sanctuary of ignorance, gone. The bliss of naivety, gone.

No one would accept. No-one would accept that such a perfect world, such a paradise, could ever be truly real, deeply tangible, and Seraph granted humans this; that their intuition was sometimes more accurate than the artificial mind could ever understand. He paused once, only once, before walking silently out of the bustling crowd that inhabited the narrow market streets of Chinatown. 

It would be some time, he accepted, before he would ever return there again.

He travelled quickly, with ease. He could cover great distances, jump trains, cross borders, and they would always be two steps behind him. But Seraph did not flatter himself. One day, he considered, one day it will change. Agents do not tire, and though I am immune to weariness, I am only as powerful as those I fight.

You do not know someone until you fight them.

And so far, so far, Seraph had never allowed the distance between himself and the sentient programmes to narrow into combat. Having never fought an agent, how would he cope? Although Seraph was quietly confident in his abilities, he knew.

You cannot read an enemy you have never allowed yourself to know. 

He did not follow agents, did not analyse how they operated. In that sense, Seraph's combative style was one based on pure instinct, as human an impulse as was accessible to something machine created. Him, created to protect, instructed to obey, living on the run, turning on the tide.

Seraph. Angel. Guardian. Protector. Barrier.

I protect that which matters most. Once, that was something else entirely, something beautiful and pure and inevitably too perfect. Now, what matters most is across town, smoking a cigarette and looking out onto a world that she knows she shared in creating.

I was created for a reason, a purpose. I was given abilities to carry out a specific purpose. But, I will use my abilities to carry out the duty I have given myself.

Seraph, the literal Firewall, crossed the street and ran as quickly as he could to the train station. Thinking such things was dangerous enough. Remaining in one place while reflecting on these things was fatal.

**SMITH**

"Ease would recant

Vows made in pain, as violent and void."

- Paradise Lost (bk. IV, l. 96) [Vows]

The agent stepped out of the car first, nonchalantly taking in his surroundings before looking back to the other agents that followed him.

Jones and Brown. He was their superior, that much all three knew. Yet sometimes Smith wondered-there, again; wondered, such a human thing to do - wondered if by some incomprehensible coincidence his anomalies, as he had christened them with no small degree of frustration, were in fact the reason for his superiority.

Incorrect, as well as illogical. Humans were the slaves, not the machines. How could possessing any percentage of any one human attribute make a machine or a programme effective, let alone superior to its peers?

Smith frowned, the arches of his eyebrows quirking upwards until his face became a familiar mask of distaste.

Humans. 

He sniffed noiselessly at the offending odours permeating his awareness. The savoury scent of cooking from an open window in the apartment block the stood at the foot of floated down to him like a poisonous fume.

Smith snarled.

He was beginning to smell things. At first, he had disregarded it as a natural aspect of his programming; another feature to convince the ignorant humans that he was merely a law enforcer, merely one of them. Now, now he reviled every perfume that dared to permeate his consciousness, every fragrance was aggravating, pulsating as each one got, to use a rarely accurate human phrase, "under his skin".

For now it was just these produced smells, those that resulted from a chemical reaction; food, liquids, etc. Smith made a silent vow to himself to rid himself of these annoyances, these disgusting sensations, and coupled it with a promise to find this ghost, this Seraph.

Jones turned inquisitively towards his superior. Brown did likewise, but with a subtle hint of resignation that made Smith consider the possibilities of the other agent being aware of more than just the discrepancies within the Matrix. Did Brown suspect that he, Smith, was deficient?

"What is wrong?"

Smith strode away from the questioning face.

"Nothing".

He waved them off to cover both ground level exits of the building. Seraph had been traced to this building, but that was some hours ago, and Smith doubted that the elusive being had lingered longer than was necessary. There was something mercenary in that action that stirred something not unlike admiration in the begrudging agent. Seraph did not attach himself to others, did not allow anything to cloud his judgement, to lead him into the many traps in the Matrix for renegade programmes, except for one exception.

The, "Oracle". Such a ridiculous name, attaching some feinted stature and importance to a particular programme that was not remarkable at all; each did what they were meant to, therefore why should any individual be singles out for renown? 

Smith, for all his reasoning and numerous attempts to decipher this, could not fathom why Seraph had assigned himself the perilous task of protecting another system of control within the Matrix.

An hour passed and nothing had been ascertained. Four hours and three other desolate buildings later, and still nothing.

As he walked evenly back towards the black Audi sedan, parked for the fourth time at a perfect parallel to the sidewalk, Smith stopped and turned to the bridge over which a late night train was progressing. He pressed a finger to his earpiece. Through the blurring faces seen through the bleary windows, Smith made out one face, obscured by semi-opaque glasses.

Seraph.

Smith turned smoothly on one heel and began the process of following the ghost.

He would seek him out. He would terminate him. It was his purpose.


	3. III

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **All original characters from the Matrix trilogy belong to Warner Bros. and the brothers Wachowski; I'm just ad-libbing.

alocin-Well, I like the back stories too, and funnily enough there is some stuff in this chapter about Seraph's rather vague past, and just when you were asking for it as well!

Dark Puck-Hi! Great name; Paradise Lost is generally considered to be quite dense..it's a HUGE poem by Milton, like a retake on the creation on the world, the origins of sin, etc. I just found that a lot of extracts from it epitomise these two characters.

Exobiologist-Yep, I was not a little intrigued by the Seraph-Smith thing 'back in the day' ^^I do like Seraph though, even if he is so damned elusive and irksome to a certain agent...

Selina Enriquez- Thank you! I shall indeed endeavour to keep writing. Thanks for the review.

Morithil.

**SERAPH**

"For spirits that live throughout

Vital in every part, not as frail man,

In entrails, heart or head, liver or reins,

Cannot but by annihilating die."

- Paradise Lost (bk. VI, l. 345) [Immortality]

So this was the leader, the superior of the trio of sentient programmes following his faint trail.

They are all the same, except this one. This one is different, barely so, but the variation was intriguing to Seraph. That said, the variation was shifting from human to human with alarming speed, growing closer to him with every carriage. 

Each human merely an empty shell for this agent to pass through until each had served its purpose, cast aside as he continued.

Seraph got up from his seat and fled softly through each carriage, anticipating the moment when the train would halt at the next station and he would disembark. He jumped the distance from each carriage to the next, stepping lightly as he deftly closed each door he vanished behind. The agent was gaining on him, but Seraph was not alarmed. He had existed so far without the gap between them closing to a dangerous minimum, and as his serene face belied, the intense state of meditation he spent extensive amounts of time in did not allow him to experience an anxiety that would cause him to panic.

He was, however, somehow familiar with the agent pursuing him.

Seraph did not waste time dwelling on this unusual revelation, but instead leapt smoothly from the still moving train as it pulled up at the station. Not even the flutter of his white shirt disturbed his wingless flight from the side of the train to the barriers, a huge jump by any standards. Vaulting effortlessly over the barriers, deaf to the warning cries of the station guards, Seraph flew down the winding passages leading to the populated streets, where it would be easier for the agent to follow him, but equally easier for himself to disappear and be lost in the crowds.****

There was an inner peace that he found in meditation. He found that it helped him focus on his fighting skills and to anticipate attacks before they were executed. After knowing the inner peace that he had once possessed before the first Matrix was dismissed as a disaster, Seraph had worked long and hard to regain something of it in the present version of the Matrix, the seventh version of the perhaps the greatest simulation ever created. Yet in his mind, Seraph always looked fondly on the first Matrix, monumental though its downfall was, even though its failure resulted in painful repercussions for him. 

Wingless. Seraph, void of his wings. Grounded, unable to fly.

It had been some time since he'd considered his literal grounding. He had served his original purpose and when what he had so tirelessly protected proved to be worthless, he had been cut loose. Humans did not accept perfection without scepticism. If Seraph had been a proud individual, the loss of flight might have resulted in his downfall. But Seraph knew the power of acceptance.

Knowing who you are, what you are. Wings do not define an angel. Neither does a fiery sword. Shorn of both, he was still first and foremost a programme designed to protect. Until his termination, he would exist.

Immortality, as humans saw it. During his time in the various versions of the Matrix, Seraph had learned to adapt. He could no longer stand solemnly before closed gates to defend what mattered most. Now, there was running and hiding.

I fight, only when necessary, only when I am as ready as my opponent and he as I.

Turning a corner, Seraph brushed the unsuspecting agent, who, as Seraph had ensured, had been unable to lock onto his rapid appearances and disappearances in various stages of the passage, and who was as unprepared for this collision as Seraph was ready. ****

**SMITH**

"But what will not ambition and revenge

Descend to? who aspires must down as low

As high he soar'd, obnoxious first and last

To basest things."

- Paradise Lost (bk. IX, l. 168) [Ambition] 

If agents possessed the technological equivalent of a tether, then Agent Smith had reached the end of his.

Unlike his compatriots, Smith seemed to have taken advantage of the benefits that possessing a drive has. On the surface, this particular agent had an ambition which drove him to perform better, faster, more efficiently than the other sentient offshoots, the Jones and Brown versions. 

There was a reason for this. This ambition was not blind.

Smith was claustrophobic. The Matrix never stopped enclosing on him. Just as his awareness assumed that it could get no closer to being suffocated by what was around him, the next day the Matrix would be as broad and open as it had been when he first entered it, and the process of diminution would begin again.

Somewhere, in the depths of the artificial mind, there was the beginning. There was the beginning of a burgeoning desire to break free, to escape. It was barely existential for now, and the agent himself was not completely aware of it, but it was not difficult to see this growing.

And now Smith was startled.

He had left the train, pushing the doors apart as the train stopped. He had tracked the programme Seraph down a winding passage, which connected other platforms together, but then the process had become challenging. His lock on Seraph had faltered. His target seemed to be able to appear and disappear at will from one section of the passage to another completely unrelated section. At times Seraph had been in front of, and then in the space of seconds, behind Smith, out of visual range, but close enough to vex the agent into allowing another frown to fracture his normally bland expression. Since the discovery that this programme had been associated with the 'Oracle' and had been frequently visiting the much scrutinized programme of late, Smith had been curiously irritated by it. Seraph was beginning to aggravate him, for Smith could not make out any viable reason for his activities.

And now, totally unprepared, Smith had allowed Seraph to literally brush shoulders with him, passing him as he had progressed round a corner as if he had been simply another human.

Blank with shock, Smith had locked gazes with the other programme, whose calm exterior and almost respectful nod of the head had baffled him. The programme Seraph had acknowledged him silently before walking swiftly away from him, and by the time that Smith had come to terms and accepted what had just happened, the enigmatic being had slipped onto another train and was hurtling towards another place entirely.

Inwardly, Smith cursed his slowness. This had never happened before. He had never been found deficient in executing his duties. Jones and Brown would suspect.

As if on cue, the other agents appeared in the passage and approached Smith, looking slightly confused.

"He got away".

"What happened?"

"You allowed him to escape". An accusation from Brown. Smith icily deflected it.

"Neither of you were in the vicinity at the appropriate time. I may have required assistance"

Jones and Brown looked at each other, so visibly abashed that Smith nearly indulged in a laugh. The two agents fleetingly resembled humbled human offspring post-lecture. He was indeed their superior.

But why had the renegade passed him? Why had this Seraph avoided what was, to Smith, an inevitable confrontation? Why delay what was inevitable?

Back inside the dark leather interior of the Audi sedan, Smith could not deny the theory that Seraph considered himself in some way superior to him.


	4. IV

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **All original characters from the Matrix trilogy belong to Warner Bros. and the brothers Wachowski; I'm just ad-libbing.

alocin-No cheeseburger, huh? I know how it feels to be losing your powers...I requested a middle section for this fanfic to magically appear on the screen, but so far I only have a few chapters and an ending. Oh well. Yes, the Frenchman will be mentioned, seeing as he and Seraph have a nice workable "hate-hate" relationship going on in Revolutions, I'm putting down what I think that started out as.

Curlyro-I'm assuming you're a Seraph fan, then? ^_^ Thank you for squealing (!) Here's another chapter for your consumption!

Dark Puck- Actually I am currently working on an original fic; it's a whole different times/worlds crossover thing but not in the traditional sense (no 14th century soldiers popping up in 2003 NY, then) ^^ I may start posting some of it on fictionpress.com when I have some definite chapters done. Being Seraph obsessed is nothing to be ashamed of-he's a trés cool character and obviously kicks ass (well, he gave Neo a run for his money)...there will be more on Seraph's grounding and his obscured past ^^

seatbelt37 - Thanks for recommending this fic*blushes*...ah, the Train Man, will he/won't he make an appearance...I hardly know myself, being only a few chapters ahead at the moment. We shall see. 

**SERAPH**

"All heart they live, all head, all eye, all ear,

All intellect, all sense, and as they please

They limb themselves, and colour, shape, or size,

Assume, as likes them best, condense or rare."

- Paradise Lost (bk. VI, l. 350) [Apparitions]

Seraph did not delude himself into assuming that he had escaped the agents for any truly significant length of time. As he approached the door of the small, slightly cramped apartment, he pondered whether to move the Oracle to a safer location immediately, and, after a few seconds had passed, decided that this was the best path of action to take.

She welcomed him into the small room as if she were a generous hostess leading another guest into a banquet hall. Seraph bowed politely as the Oracle stepped into the small side kitchen to smoke, clasping his hands loosely behind his back as he followed her. The Oracle leaned casually on the work surface, as if in leisure, though this was a programme accused of knowing more than was good for her.

She looked at him, scrunching up her eyes as if to more closely scrutinize him. 

"I suppose its time to move again".

Seraph nodded silently.

"Yes, Oracle. The agents grow more wary of your activities with the human rebels".

The Oracle sighed lightly, placing a smooth leathery hand on her hip.

"Pass me that light", she beckoned with a casual but assertive gesture.

Seraph obliged, wordlessly handing the intuitive programme the lighter that sat near his elbow. She took it resignedly, lighting up the cigarette and exhaling the smoke into the air above their heads.

"You're risking an awful lot, you know".

Seraph looked up, his gaze clouded by the opaque lenses of his glasses.

"I know the dangers, Oracle".

"And still you seek to protect me. I gotta tell you", she blew a perfect smoke ring towards the doorframe, "that takes some dedication. I like that in you, Seraph. You assign yourself to something, and you stick with it. That should serve you well-", she flicked ash easily into the sink, "or get you into even more trouble".

Seraph accepted this with another small nod.

"You know whether I will stay with you or not. You have not questioned me, even if you have seen what I will do".

The Oracle smiled wryly at the serious face.

"I trust you, Seraph. That's more than I tell most of who come through that door", she pointed with the cigarette, "and I know I can, too. Ever since you lost those pretty wings of yours", another gesture with the cigarette, "you kept on going. Takes a lotta guts. There's something in you, Seraph, something that can't be undone or broken. No-one else sees that, and perhaps its best that they don't".

The silence that followed was comfortable, interrupted only by the slight sweep of Seraph's foot brushing the floor as he almost bashfully looked at his feet.

The Oracle smiled, and reached into her apron pocket.

"Candy?"

Seraph returned his gaze to hers and shook his head at the brightly wrapped sweet.

"No thank you, Oracle. We must go".

The programme flicked the cigarette butt out of the partly opened window over the sink.

"Well, no time like the present".

She smiled a little knowingly, and slowly stepped back into the living room, to gather what little belongings she had taken for herself before leaving, this time for good.

**SMITH**

"Then stayed the fervid wheels, and in his hand

He took the golden compasses, prepared

In God's eternal store, to circumscribe

This universe and all created things:

One foot he centred, and the other turned

Round through the vast profundity obscure

And said, "Thus far extend, thus far thy bounds,

This be thy just circumference, O world."

- Paradise Lost (bk. VII, l. 224) [World] 

The agent stood alone, removed from the triad of unfeeling enforcers and looking out onto the world that stretched to the horizon.

The horizon that controlled. The horizon which was not, in fact, there at all.

Agent Smith was solitary by- and this was questionable to his peers - by nature. As if nature could penetrate the solid indifference of an agent. But it did. Unlike other sentient programmes, Smith found himself most comfortable when in his own company.

Humans. They consume every natural resource they find themselves located in the vicinity of. They are like a plague.

A swarm of humans. They disgusted Smith, clinical and germless, who handled them as if conducting an experiment with cold metal tongs. Those who had been subject to his examinations would describe the agent as precisely that. Cold. Metallic.

Alone.

Smith stood, his hands clasped formally behind his straight back, fingers interlocked firmly, the occasional click of a knuckle the only noise disturbing the quiet of the office.

Hardly a sound except the barely audible simulation of a heartbeat in his chest and the steady breathing that accompanied it. There was nothing to divert him from the surroundings or his purpose, no conversation, no music. Music had interesting mathematical possibilities, but it was not something that Smith was keen to display a liking for. Nor was it expected from him, as an agent was expected to remove all rebels, preventing as many humans from being unplugged from the Matrix as possible, not deconstruct every symphony or composition for strings in his spare time.

Smith brushed aside the distracting thought and concentrated on what lay before him. Millions of people, living out their pitiful little existences, completely unaware of how meaningless it all was. They were simply meant to generate power for the machines, and so the cycle of birth, life and death was played out every day, the system coming full circle.

The agent surveyed the cosmopolitan cityscape before him. After some deliberation, he carefully removed his dark glasses and, folding the arms almost gently, placed them on the desk behind him.

It was such a trivial thing to consider, but Agent Smith could not help but wonder why he had been designed with such - _human_ eyes. Blue eyes. Again the agent deliberated if this was another mark of his superiority to the others, a feature to single him out from the other agents, and was again irritated when the results came back inconclusive.

He allowed himself a brief sigh. Smith turned to make sure that he was the only one aware of the action before looking back out onto the city again. He marvelled at it silently. The Matrix was a masterpiece, a finely honed design that held humanity in its thrall simply because to them, it was not a masterpiece. It was full of negatives, war, poverty, discrimination, exploitation, but that was what made this version of the Matrix successful, unlike the very first.

Smith contained in his system all the relevant documents on the first Matrix, why it had failed and various images of what the perfect world would have been like. All that he knew about the first Matrix had been implanted in his memory during his production. 

It was a disaster, but something in the perfect existence void of all the mundane and negative aspects of what humans deemed life was appealing to the agent. Nothing was examined or questioned, it was all so simple, another facet of the beauty of the first Matrix; that such a complex thing was viewed as being so pure and natural.

Smith cleared his throat.

Instructions flowed into his brain via the earpiece he always wore. Reaching for his discarded sunglasses he clasped them in one hand as he walked to the door. Smith looked the trembling human cuffed to the chair full in the face with unfeeling eyes before stretching out a hand and snapping his neck.

Business as usual.


	5. V

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **All original characters from the Matrix trilogy belong to Warner Bros. and the brothers Wachowski; I'm just ad-libbing.

alocin-Will Seraph get a cookie? All will be revealed...^^

Dark Puck- Thank you! The original fic won't be up for a while yet, but I'll let you know when it finally goes up.

Fade Out- I know what you mean about the whole cameo thing, and rest assured, this fic is primarily about the two main characters, so any cameos will be few and brief...and, don't feel bad about the whole, "constructive criticism" thing....^_~

seatbelt37- Well, thank YOU for that review...I did go through a few versions of that scene with the Oracle though, because I kinda wanted to get as close to the character in the films as possible, you know? Glad you liked it.

Selina Enriquez- Selina, Selina, Selina; I can always count on you to remind me about the seemingly endless list of, "things to love about Smith". What a trooper; thanks for the review, girl!

Morithil.

**SERAPH**

"Though to recount almighty works

What words of tongue or seraph can suffice,

Or heart of man suffice to comprehend?"

- Paradise Lost (bk. VII, l. 112) [Creation]

It was a secure place, Seraph was sure of that.

Like the last apartment that he had found for the Oracle, this was inconspicuous and mundane. It was slightly bigger, with a few separate rooms; a living room, a kitchen and a small bedroom. A short corridor lead from the door into the living room, in which sat a weather-beaten sofa worn with many years of use and a few items of dated furniture. Nothing unusual or noticeable, which was exactly how it should be. The Oracle should not be at all too obvious to other beings in the Matrix.

That would prove to be dangerous. 

When Seraph entered the kitchen that morning the Oracle was not alone. She lounged in one of the small chairs that surrounded the kitchen table, the customary cigarette burning slowly with each drag. Sitting opposite her in another chair was another programme. Seraph recognised the small stature and bespectacled form of the Keymaker. He nodded without speaking as the other programme rose from the seat.

The Keymaker took his leave of the Oracle, who waved him off with a small sweep of the cigarette in her raised hand. Seraph bowed formally as the short figure shuffled out under the beaded curtain and out of the apartment.

Smoke curls from the cigarette traced ornate designs in the air. A warm, sweet smell from the other end of the kitchen hinted at the cookies baking in the oven. The Oracle looked over the top of her glasses.

"Well, look who it is; my very own protector. Sit yourself down, Seraph; make yourself at home"

Seraph looked reluctantly at the chair before brushing aside his shirttails and sitting down on the offered seat.

"You look a little pensive. Thinking about the old place again?"

Seraph looked up slightly, at first surprised at the Oracle's accurate intuition, before realising that she was usually first to recognise such things. He nodded silently, his hands rested on each of his knees. 

The Oracle smiled a little sadly.

"I know what you're thinking. It was beautiful, Seraph, really something. What you've got to realise is that things change. I suppose some would say that it's the one thing that's inevitable; change"

Seraph looked at her. It was true; the first, the garden, as he saw it, had been more beautiful than he had the ability to put into words, those descriptive tools that did it no justice. 

"I know that it does not exist anymore, Oracle. Change does happen. But you have not said what_ you_ would call the one thing that is inevitable"

The Oracle chuckled deep in her throat. She tapped the end of her cigarette into the ashtray in the centre of the table and readjusted her glasses more firmly onto the bridge of her nose.

"Nothing gets past you, does it? I'm the Oracle, Seraph. There are any number of outcomes and possibilities, and they are only determined by the choices that are made. I've seen an infinite number of things that could only have happened if certain choices had or hadn't been made. How can you see past the choices that you don't understand? That's a tough one, to be sure. Sometimes it's hard to say whether anything is certain until its happened, if you've seen what I have"

Seraph considered this quietly. The Oracle smiled.

"Enough of that, though. I've been baking some cookies today; you want one?"

The other programme almost smiled. Perhaps there were some things that would never change.

**SMITH**

"Far off his coming alone."

- Paradise Lost (bk. VI, l. 768) [Anticipation]

Parasites, that's what they were. A plague, a disease. Smith hated them.

But was an agent designed to hate? Was technology meant to include emotion?

Unanswered questions that Smith was beginning to find very irksome. He had discovered the previous location of the Oracle, without any significant assistance from his associates, Brown and Jones. This did give Agent Smith the barest hint of satisfaction. At least some things were constant for the time being.

Unlike Seraph's movements.

Another run through the files on the programme. Another extensive analysis, a breakdown of Seraph's past and present. Only two could determine his future. He and Seraph.

The competition had begun.

Smith smiled wryly, a rare expression usually given to displaying joy or surprise. But in Agent Smith a smile took on a more sinister definition. Confidence, yes. But also a hint of having the upper hand, a master class in the look of someone who knows more than they let on. 

The enigma flitted, here and there, darting about the Matrix in a paced but nevertheless seemingly erratic pattern. But there was a pattern. The programme had made sure that he frequented every single location at least twice to avoid making one seem more important than the rest. Ultimately, this had resulted in Smith being confronted with mundane points on maps, insignificant rooms on blueprints, empty buildings and no sign of Seraph. But Smith was breaking the pattern, catching up to Seraph, and now, now he was closer.

A ghost, they called him. Vanishes at will, is impossible to chase.

Nothing is impossible; Smith grimaced as the joints in his fist cracked resoundingly in the darkness of the corridor. He exited the foyer and stood, for a while motionless on the sidewalk.

Pigeons cooed and flapped away, clattering against the whiteness of the slowly darkening sky.

Smith looked upwards, as if called by something imperceptible above him. He returned his gaze to eye level. He adjusted the lapel of his jacket slowly.

The humans bustled. Individuals ran down the street, groups sought refuge in shop doorways. Children laughed and tugged on parents' sleeves.

Smith checked his reflection in the black shiny surface of his shoes, his face showing up darkened and distorted.

When he relinquished his empty focus on his appearance Smith returned to his usual alienated posture.

He turned smoothly on one heel and walked down the street.

The air was cold. Smith ignored the drop in temperature.

It was snowing.


	6. VI

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **All original characters from the Matrix trilogy belong to Warner Bros. and the brothers Wachowski; I'm just ad-libbing.

Sorry for the huge delay in uploading this chapter – Have I been busy? Yeah, you could say that ^^. Anyway, apologies for this taking so long-I hope its been worth it.

Morithil.

**SERAPH**

"The strongest and the fiercest spirit

That fought in heaven, now fiercer by despair. "

-Paradise Lost. (bk. II. 44)

The last time he'd visited her it had been different.

She was the same, the perpetual cigarette and apron, the smell of baking cookies in the oven.

This time she had instructions.

Seraph had sat down at the table with her and listened. Listened while the Oracle had explained to him the danger that he was risking by helping her.

"They're not ready yet", she'd said, with a token glance at the cookies browning on the top shelf of the oven. Simple though the remark was, Seraph knew without any other words being spoken, that the Oracle meant more than she said, though in order to clarify herself, she continued.

"Damn, we're not ready yet for what has to happen. Like I've always maintained; this war can't continue indefinitely. There's a chain of events that has to take place first, and when the time comes, you will need to make your choice. Not now, Seraph, although Lord knows you've done enough for this side already. You may be needed in the future, and if you're going to be around the future, then you've got to lay low for a while".

Ashes flicked into the tray in the centre of the table. A smouldering butt end. The future not yet written, but already forming on the cards.

"Oracle, do you speak of-"

She cut him off with a wave of her hand and a readjustment of her spectacles.

"I don't, Seraph, that's the point. I'm not saying more than what needs to be said. Besides, you know who I'm talking about".

He'd nodded silently, fully aware of the enormity of the situation they were in. The One. Was it now that he would be discovered? Seraph dismissed the thought gently. First he had to focus on his situation.

"There is a powerful one among us called the Merovingian. I know you have heard his name. I have arranged for him to take you into his service. It's not pretty work, Seraph, I'll be honest with you; he's all about grandiose statements and intimidation tactics, and he's quite fond of manipulating others of his kind as he is humans. But you can hold your own. It'll keep you off _their_ radar, and for all appearances, you'll just be doing what most of us from the machine world are doing; looking after our own. Don't turn this down now Seraph, when you leave it'll probably be of your own accord, but for now, look after yourself".

Seraph paused before speaking. The Oracle was helping him now, keeping the agents off his back while the time was not yet right. He was grateful to her.

"Thank you, Oracle, but who shall protect you?"

She chuckled, the rich sound that filled the small kitchen.

"I'll be just fine. I have recruitments to make. My kids need some guidance, Seraph, and I need some company, not that I haven't always appreciated yours".

Seraph lowered his head to conceal a rare smile. The Oracle noticed and smiled back.

"Oh, before I forget. There's something here for you. The Keymaker gave these to me after I informed him of your work. You'll need to be able to make quick getaways in the future".

She slid a chain on which several keys were attached across the table to him. Seraph picked up the chain carefully before looking up questioningly at the Oracle.

"Those will be very helpful. They open all kinds of doors in case you need to leave through the back".

Seraph nodded. Keys to open back doors in the Matrix. A passport to travel through the Matrix with more ease and speed.

He nodded his thanks and rose. The Oracle rose with him and saw him to the doorway of the kitchen.

"Seraph? It's cold out there. Look after yourself".

Seraph bowed and exited the flat. Outside it was snowing, and he gathered his loose white shirt around his chest, not to protect against the cold, but to allow himself to slip the key chain into one voluminous sleeve.

The park was quiet with the falling snow, and white mounds had covered the green grass. Seraph vaulted over the closed gates, and walked through the trees undisturbed.

Though the air was freezing, Seraph felt not the cold. He reached a small clearing, peaceful in its icy serenity.

The garden would have looked like this in winter.

Then discord struck the peace.

**SMITH**

"Their fatal hands

No second stroke intend. "

- Paradise Lost. (bk. II. 712)****

It had been worth the wait after all. Seraph alone in a deserted clearing, no interfering humans to gawp and point. Not that engaging in often fatal combat in front of the unplugged humans had ever been an issue for Smith.

In all else excluding combat, Smith was the personification of subtlety. 

Every word, every smooth gesture was calculated, never dramatic or obvious. Agent Smith was minimalist when it came to expressing himself. He was not here to induce camaraderie or other such sickly links with others, he was here to enforce.

The hands that lay casually on desktops or clasped in his lap formed brutal fists when needed. Smith did not spare anything his brutality or pull his punches. Few who received the merciless power of his fists stood up or indeed moved from the floor by his feet. 

Neither would this rebel, one from the machine world, no less. It was not acceptable.

Snow fell, brushing his jacket lapels and shirt cuffs.

Smith did not brush them off. Cold was not an issue for him.

The snow fell more quickly, heavier on the ground, blurring the distance between them. Smith could still see Seraph as clearly as he had moments before. The whirling snow did not pose an obstacle. Snow landed gently on his body, but did not, as it should have, begin to melt on coming into contact with a warmer surface.

It had come into contact with something colder than itself.

Seraph, fingering a shirtsleeve, stood motionless.

"You have been following me".

"Yes".

Smith responded in the affirmative, his eyes cold behind his dark glasses, reflecting the whiteness of the snow at his feet.

"The others have not succeeded as you have".

"Yet you were all intended for the same purpose".

"I did not come here to exchange pleasantries."

Seraph nodded in agreement and walked slowly, moving a few paces to the right.

"That is true".

Smith was a little surprised by Seraph's peaceable manner. It was blatantly obvious that he was there to fulfil his purpose and eliminate Seraph from the Matrix. However, the other programme seemed to read his thought patterns.

"Why have you come alone? It is usual for you to move in groups of three, not alone".

Smith had no answer for this. He was in no doubt as to Jones and Brown being less than adequate to track the elusive Seraph, as even he had found the process challenging at times. However, he did not fully understand his own reasons for separating from the others and-

His own reasons.

Surely he was here simply to enforce, he had come here to carry out instructions-

Had there been instructions? Seraph was to have been questioned, but it became disturbingly clear to Smith that he had not come here to interrogate Seraph, and in fact had no intention of doing so.

He had come here to fight.

Smith brushed aside the worrying notion that he had disregarded his instructions and had been following his own, and taking several steps forward, pounded his clenched fist in the direction of Seraph's almost placid face.

So be it, he thought with unfamiliar heat building inside him.


	7. VII

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **All original characters from the Matrix trilogy belong to Warner Bros. and the brothers Wachowski; I'm just ad-libbing.

alocin-ahh, the Seraph-cookie issue...never fear, I'm sure that will happen soon...(!) Thanks for the review.

Dark Puck-Yep, always wondered how Seraph came to work for the Frenchman, I always figured it couldn't be a completely legitimate arrangement, so obviously it's a cover! ^^ Anyway, thanks for your review,...wasn't trying to be THAT cruel...

Morithil.****

**SERAPH**

**"**Who overcomes

By force, hath overcome but half his foe. "

-Paradise Lost. (Bk. I. 648.)

Seraph dodged the punch, swaying slightly on his feet, using his arms to make sweeping motions upwards in order to fend off the ramrod punches of the agent who never strayed further than one pace away from him.

That was either a sign of confidence, or another aspect of sentient programming designed to intimidate, Seraph considered. But which? This agent was, for all appearances, like all others, and yet-

It was the code.

The code was the same, with the subtlest of variations that flickered before the electronic eye before disappearing.

This agent was different.

Although he had never taken interest in his own image, Seraph knew what his appearance to the experienced eye was like. Glowing burnt yellow and gold against the green and black of the Matrix. It had always interested him how statues of Buddha that littered the marketplaces were often the same colour, and how he and the effigies seemed to share the same sitting position. No matter, but this agent seemed to have inherited some aspects from a source other than the sentient design.

Humans could not accept a perfect world, but were machines able to tolerate an imperfect one?

Seraph looked, in-between the lightning attacks and split-second dodges, and saw more than even the agent itself was perhaps aware of.

Anger.

Hatred.

Frustration.

All these were merely hints, suggestions of evolving intelligence beginning to form bases of emotions. It was incredible how artificial intelligence could form these things without being programmed to develop them, even more so that an agent could do this. Seraph could tell that this process was not intentional, rather a subconscious action. But the last made Seraph's eyes widen slightly behind his round glasses.

The desire to be free.

At this point, Smith aimed another in a seemingly endless cycle of punches at Seraph's chest. Moving swiftly, Seraph grabbed the extended arm with both hands, and, using the snow underfoot to his advantage, slid under the arm, rising to kick the agent sharply in the side before dropping to a crouch.

Seraph spun round on one secure foot, the other held out where it caught on the agent's ankles, tripping him.

The agent fell to the floor, sending snow flying up from the thickly covered ground. But Seraph knew when to step back, for the agent then hammered both fists into the ground on either side of him and catapulted himself back into a standing position. Seraph cartwheeled gracefully away from the searching blows and, once a secure distance away, turned back to face his opponent.

The agent's jaw tightened in a grimace. Seraph watched with muted interest as the fingers of one hand curled into a tight fist.

**SMITH**

"My sentence is for open war."

-Paradise Lost. (bk II. , 51)

This was not proceeding exactly as planned.

The extensive list of manoeuvres implanted into Smith's memory were designed to fit every possible type of attack or defensive move from the opponent. Smith was a form of artificial intelligence at the height of advanced technology, an visually understated study in minimal effort, software at once broken down to its barest features and yet astonishing in its subtlety and complexity.

Seraph was still standing.

Incomplete analysis. Seraph was still visibly unharmed.

Agent Smith gritted his teeth and registered the molars grinding unpleasantly against one another.

Strategy 330.110 executed to similar effect.

Frustration is not something Smith has been programmed to deal with. He has learnt to cope with it himself, in his own unique way. Quietly, menacingly.

Now this method wavers.

Seraph appears to be getting progressively stronger, faster, and more adaptive to his normally unstoppable onslaught.

Smith improvised.

Punches flew in fractions of seconds; heavy-handed blows that travel as fast as their owner can dodge.

Seraph still managed to elude receiving the full impact of a blow. His hands shoot upwards and away, sweeping gestures that leave Smith's equilibrium in question.

Agent Smith became more brutal, if such a thing were possible for an agent to become. Brutality is quiet in agents, it lies under the surface. Not now, not now that Seraph has leapt into the air, suspended irritatingly gracefully in the air, snow flying around him. He kicks out. 

Smith flew into the back of a nearby tree.

The bark cracked and splintered off in shards, each as sharp as the daggers that stared out at Seraph from behind the dark glasses the agent wore.

Smith rose up from the ground in an unnatural fluid movement. He had been thrown down again. This was not something he was accustomed to. He brushed off his suit and adjusted the lapel.

When they came at each other again, Seraph rebounded from the branch of a tall pine, launching himself at the agent, who stood, iron dusted with snow, in the middle of the torn grass.

The other programme was close now, Smith noted.

This time the combat was short distance, he and the renegade literally in each other's faces, invading personal space and executing blows in painfully while in painfully close range of each other. Again Seraph matched him, kicking away his punches, brushing aside his kicks.

Agent Smith became more frustrated, erratic in his attacks. He sought to outwit Seraph through the sheer speed that agents possess. In doing so, in allowing himself to lash out, the agent lost his momentum.

Seraph was apparently aware of this. Warding off the more desperate blows, he pulverized the agent's face and upper body, circling him quickly, seeking to throw him off balance. 

Incomprehension. Smith could not fathom why he appeared to be gradually losing. And he _was_ in fact, losing.

An unexpected head butt swiftly followed the final blow to his head.

Smith acknowledged a shard of his glasses cracking and falling in the uneven snow.

He realised that he was on the ground.

Seraph stood over him, breathing heavily from exertion, one white sleeve slipping over an outstretched palm, implying one of two things.

Rise, and fight again, or rise and accept defeat.

Smith glowered up at the expressionless Seraph from his frozen bed on the ground.

His eyes smouldered hatred and silent fury.

Seraph wiped his brow slowly with one sleeve as his breath clouded the frosty air.

The snow fell more slowly, flakes brushing Seraph's face and strewing Smith's suit with cold particles of ice.

Smith bared his teeth in a rare snarl.


	8. VIII

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **All original characters from the Matrix trilogy belong to Warner Bros. and the brothers Wachowski; I'm just ad-libbing.

"The world was all before them, where to choose

Their place of rest, and Providence their guide;

They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow,

Though Eden took their solitary way."

- Paradise Lost (bk. XII, l. 646) [Banishment : World]

**SERAPH**

A visually endless hall of doors.

Seraph walked softly down the smooth channel, stopping before the right door. He withdrew the chain of keys from his wide sleeve and, swiftly selecting the appropriate one, brought it up to the lock.

He paused.

Seraph looked down the hall. The row upon row of doors on either side of him, along with their stark symmetry, gave anyone within it a feeling of limbo.****

Neither in one place or another. A type of systematic purgatory, perhaps.

A way out.

Seraph knew why he paused before opening the door and fleeing, soundless, into another part of the Matrix altogether, emerging an unprecedented distance from where he had been before.

One last thought, before the image would be put aside for a number of years, decades, however long the conflict would last.

The garden in spring.

There had been blossom falling, pink and white petals that filled the air with fragrance and movement. Still the crisp cold of winter clinging to the budding branches, still a freshness, and new light to everything in it.

There had been a time when there was no running, when the only illusion was the happy one that they had given to the humans. A beautiful dream, yes, but one that was too perfect.

Now, illusions were everywhere, and I must become, at least to others, something else, Seraph considered. A front, working for the Merovingian. Not pretty work, the Oracle had called it. Seraph could easily imagine what the simple comment referred, and momentarily winced at the thought of associating with the powerful but corrupt programme and his many cohorts.

No time for attaining moral superiority, at least for now.

It is not real, Seraph admonished himself. Only an aid to protect myself. 

Snow would not be the same again, having confronted another entity of more severe frost. Seraph dismissed the fight from his head quickly, a reflex action.

You cannot change what has happened already, but still, do not take your victory with too much confidence, thought the solitary figure in the white shirt against pale walls.

You have beaten him once. That is enough, for now.

Seraph slipped through the open door, which closed behind him with an indrawn breath of deep suction.

For now, you have to become the illusion. Become the ghost. Paradise, how Seraph liked to think of the garden, was gone. Lost.

Seraph surveyed his surroundings and, travelling light, began the gradual process of losing the last shreds of paradise.

**SMITH**

"Execrable son! So to aspire

Above his brethren, to himself assuming

Authority usurp'd, from God not given.

He gave us only over beast, fish, fowl,

Dominion absolute; that right we hold

By his donation; but man over men

He made not lord; such title to himself

Reserving, human left from human free."

- Paradise Lost (bk. XII, l. 64) [Slavery]

The agent looked up from the monotonous greys and browns that tinged the desk he sat before.

The colours were irrelevant. Blue eyes glanced through the dark glasses, at once translucently bland and icily superior.

Some colours he did not want to waste time on debating the significance of. Appearance was second in importance to efficiency, and Agent Smith felt a slight percentage less efficient than he usually did.

The elusive Seraph had indeed lived up to his name. Vanishing, as if holding the keys to - 

Back doors.

Exactly, Smith seized on the conclusion of thought. Back doors. Like a ghost, he slips in and out of our jurisdictions.

One day, it would be different.

Agent Smith was finding it increasingly difficult to accept his, as he saw it, failure. Without realising it, he turned the self-directed anger into a means to excuse his defeat in a disturbingly human fashion. Laying it on another.

If I had more control over separate locations in the Matrix, the renegade would have been located much faster and eliminated with greater ease. The company of imbeciles surrounds me, he thought irritably, glancing over at the solid but somehow inert figures of Jones ands Brown, sat at their designated desks.

There was silence. Nothing. Smith blinked, taken aback.

The other agents had not reacted to this new form of address. He had frankly insulted them, and yet the wave of information usually transferred to both of them via their close quarters did not appear to have an effect.

Normally, one thought would pass between them like a pulse. Three entities sharing the same information. The construct aware of all of them, individually processed thoughts rebounding like kinetically charged impulses across a network of intelligence.

Nothing. The construct did not instruct Jones and Brown to delete him for what was the equivalent of insubordination. They did not know.

Smith, quietly astonished, tested this theory to prove its existence.

The words formed, slowly, but injected with vehemence and cautious annunciation in his advanced brain.

I hate this place.

Nothing.

The agent's patterns of thought multiplied with this realisation.

He was still trapped.

But now, now he had independent thought, independent in that other agents did not register his alien sentiments.

Agent Smith took a last glance at the two agents sharing the room with him. He was superior indeed, and now more alienated than before. Set apart from other sentient programmes.

Things now were very different. 


	9. VIIII

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **All original characters from the Matrix trilogy belong to Warner Bros. and the brothers Wachowski; I'm just ad-libbing.

Last chapter! Hope you like it, a huge thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this - Morithil.

**SATI**

_"His form had yet not lost_

_All her original brightness, nor appear'd_

_Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess_

_Of glory obscur'd."_

_Paradise Lost. Book i. Line 591._

There are lights going out all over town.

All the lights that were in this corridor have been switched off, one by one, as if they are pointing someone towards us. It could be a power cut.

Seraph walks faster now. His hand is a giant, holding mine so that I cannot see the fingers, only my wrist ending and his smooth hand beginning.

The room we have hurried into is dark. Seraph stands with me against the wall, as if he is waiting for something to happen, for someone to come in. He has not spoken a word to me since we left the Oracle, and now I am frightened.

Why is Seraph so quiet? I want to ask him. Why are we hiding, is it a game?

He looks so serious that I am sure it is not a game. His hand covering mine is getting warmer. He raises his head and looks at the door to this room.

We wait. I have to hush my breathing or whatever is coming will find us. If we are quiet, whatever is outside may not notice we are here.

I can hear something. Perhaps a cat in walking along the windowsill, perhaps a mouse is scuttling away from a cat, maybe -

Seraph's back has straightened a little. He looks as if he is expecting someone, something he knows to come in. If so, why is he so quiet? Why doesn't he go to the door and show them in. What are we hiding from?

Something bad is about to happen. I can feel it, in the tingling in my toes and how my image copies the signs of fear. Hair rises on my arms.

The door opens slowly.

A man comes into the room. He is tall, and in black. The white of his shirt shows up against the dim room and his black tie. His sunglasses hide his eyes; I cannot see him properly because the room is too dark. I do not like his smile, it is neither happy or friendly. It makes me feel cold. He is like the stone angels on tombstones. I do not like them.

I know him from somewhere. He's like a character from a storybook that I can't remember the name of.

He walks towards us, and Seraph squeezes my hand. I think he's trying to make me feel better, but the Oracle always said that you should think of the things you like whenever you're scared, think of something you love. I want to tell Seraph, but the man is talking to him.

His voice is like is black coffee. I don't know why I think that, it's such a strange thing to think about someone's voice, but it is. The Oracle would smile and tell me I'm a clever girl if I told her that. Now I remember - I remember who the man is, the Oracle told me the story about him, him and Neo. I miss Neo, I hope he is alright. The Train Man would not let him come with us. I waved him goodbye as the train moved away. I hope he saw it.

"The Oracle told me about you"

I couldn't stop myself. Seraph looked at me, I could feel warmth come out from behind his sunglasses. The Oracle told me that Seraph is always so calm, even when he's afraid. I'm trying to be brave. The man asks me what the Oracle said about him. Now I am afraid, he has crouched down and is looking at me. Seraph is tensing, maybe he is about to push the man away, tell him to stop frightening me.

He smiles, but I am still scared. I remember his name. His name is Smith.

"She told me you were a bad man"

"Oh, I'm not so bad, once you get to know me"

I think he is. I think he is still the bad man that the Oracle told me about. I think that Neo is right not to like him. But there is something sad about him, something angry as well, as if he is doing something he doesn't want to and he cannot stop himself. I want to tell him to try. I want to ask him if its true, that he is different from the others, if he really is connected to Neo. I want to ask him if he is like Seraph. Maybe they took his wings from him as well. Maybe that is why he is sad and angry.

The room fills with more, more of the same, more of Smith. We are surrounded. Can Seraph fight all of these at the same time? Is there anywhere I can hide until it's all over? Seraph and Smith said that they had fought before. Seraph won, I know now, and it makes me glad. Perhaps he can win again.

I don't know why, but Seraph's hand is cold. I squeeze his hand this time, and before he steps forward, he looks down at me, a little puzzled.

"Think of the garden, Seraph. The Oracle said that it was beautiful and that you liked it there"

The man called Smith presses his lips together when I say this.

Seraph gives me a little smile at the corner of his mouth.

Does Smith know about the garden? I think so. Because when they look at each other they seem to lose it, lose paradise all over again.

**.FINIS.**


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